


I've got a hundred thrown-out speeches (I almost said to you)

by MissShipper



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, Mutual Pining, Pol!Jon, Sharing a Bed, The Starks actually talk and spend quality time together, but basically... Jon has a POV and loves Sansa Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-08-10 04:36:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20129461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissShipper/pseuds/MissShipper
Summary: Telling someone your deepest secret is not always easy, and Jon isn't quite ready to let her know the truth about his feelings.Or, five times Jon almost says “I love you” to Sansa, and one time he actually does.(Tittle is from "The Archer", by Taylor Swift).





	1. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle of bastards, Jon finds Sansa in Winterfell.

He knocks three times. She does not answer at first, so he tries again. _ Knock, knock, knock. _ Her voice is low, almost a whisper, but he can hear when she allows him to enter her chambers. 

Everything was different, Jon could barely recognise. It was her old chambers, the one when she slept when she was a little child before _ everything _ happened. Before he joined the Night’s Watch, before he learned about the White Walkers, before he became Lord Commander, before he died. Before she was held captive by the Lannisters, by Littlefinger, and by Ramsay Bolton. 

Jon had only visited her chambers once, with Robb, when Sansa told them that they should always compliment a Lady’s name. But he was barely there, Sansa didn’t seem to like him, even though she was always kind and polite. The perfect Lady-to-be. 

After they took Winterfell back, the first order he gave was to clean every evidence of the Boltons. 

She is looking through the window when he approaches her. “Sansa,” he sighs. “How are you feeling?” 

“There’s just so much to do,” she turns her head to look him in the eye, and he can tell that she’s been crying. “I can’t believe that Winterfell is ours again.” 

“Thanks to you,” he offers with a soft smile. “It if wasn’t for the knights of the Vale, our army would be dead.”

“I would be, too,” she closes her eyes and it pains him to remember her words. _ If Ramsay wins, I’m not going back there alive. _Jon opens his mouth to say something, but finds himself at loss of words. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” 

“It’s okay,” he reassures, even though he knows that he’s the one who should be apologising. If only he had listened to her concerns. “It’s over now.”

“It is,” Sansa breathes heavily, facing the night. “I killed him. I fed him to his dogs, Jon.” 

Her voice cracks by the end of the sentence as she looks down at her fingers. Jon rushes to grab her between his arms and is glad when she does not flinch at his touch. Sansa lets her tears fall from her Tully-blue eyes, embracing his thick chest. He whispers sweet words to her ear, trying to calm her down and just be there for her. 

It’s not easy to kill someone. He remembers the day he killed Qhorin Halfhand vividly. Even though Qhorin instructed him to do so, Jon was still the one who took his life. But this was different. Ramsay was an abuser. He made her life hell, he killed their brother. He deserved to pay for his atrocities. He deserved to die. Jon knew that Sansa was crying out of relief.

“Shhh,” Jon brushes her loose curls, free from the half-side braid that she wore earlier. “You’re safe, he won’t hurt you anymore.” 

She cried for minutes, but Jon never complained. He just wanted to tell her that she was brave, and smart, and strong. He wanted to tell her that she was the only reason that he was alive. Not because of the battle, no. Sansa saved him long ago, since the moment she arrived at Castle Black. 

He didn’t understand that then, but it was more than clear now. He had nowhere to go, was probably just going to wander alone in unknown lands. But she gave him a purpose, and so much more than that. She gave him kindness, respect and the closest thing to a home he’d ever known. Sansa didn’t exclude him, not for a moment, not even for a bit. It was strange, how he felt that he belonged by her side. But she was welcoming and warm, fierce and focused to achieve the goal of reclaiming Winterfell. And Jon was a part of it, only because of her. 

They had spent days trying to gather people, days trying to prove that House Stark was not dead. She was the daughter of Ned and Catelyn, she was the blood of Winterfell. She was a Stark, and she was brave. This time, she treated him like he was also a Stark. This time, they got to know each other. Sansa was stubborn and Jon was headstrong, they didn’t agree most of the time, but she was also generous and funny. She still liked to listen to stories. Only this time, she didn’t fancy knights or wanted to be rescued. In her mind, no one would come for her, so she had to learn to fight for herself. 

_ But I would. I would search for you anywhere. And I would find you, and I would keep you safe. _

This time, she asked him all about the Night’s Watch and the White Walkers. And as much as it hurt him to remember it, he told her everything. From the first day he got to the Watch, to the first time he saw a White Walker, to the lands beyond the Wall, to the Wildlings, to Ygritte and how he had broken his vows, to the day he was chosen to be Lord Commander and to the day he was killed by his brothers. 

Each time he told her a story, he was healing. He cried many times, but Sansa was always gentle to wipe his tears and hold him close. 

She didn’t like to talk about her stories. She wasn’t ready. Jon didn’t push her, he knew it was too painful to relive everything. Sansa had already suffered enough, and the last thing he wanted was to harm her. 

He always made it clear that he would be there if she ever wanted to talk, though. 

“Thank you,” she says, her voice suppressed by his chest. Jon takes a deep breath as his fingers run up and down her spine. “Please, Jon, don’t leave me.” 

He frowns, catching her face between his large hands, searching for her eyes. “Why would I ever leave you?” 

“You were going South when I disturbed your plans,” she explains, sniffling back tears. “I know it’s selfish to ask this of you, but-”

“Sansa,” he interrupts her, because the thought of leaving her behind never crossed his mind. Since the day they reunited, they’d always be together. They worked better united, as a pack. “I won’t leave you. Not now, not ever.” Jon assures her, caressing her flushed cheeks. 

She nods, closing her eyes and pulling him to another hug. Jon winced when she touched his rib, which was a little bit sore because of the battle. 

“Are you hurt?” she abruptly lets go of him, and he wishes she never did that. 

“Only a bit sore,” he answers, feeling Sansa’s grip on his hand. “Sword-fighting does that. But needn’t worry, I’m used to it.” 

“No, I can take care of it,” she counters. “I had to learn, because of… him.” 

“There’s no need,” Jon insists, shooking his head. Their hands were still tangled, and his thumb nervously pressed her palm. It was a simple show of affection. One that had become usual between the two of them. “You should take some rest.” 

“_ You _ should take some rest,” she says, almost smiling. But it didn’t meet her beautiful eyes. After a few beats of silence, she seemed to be comfortable enough to mention Rickon. Jon wasn’t, though. It was his fault. He didn’t listen to her, and Rickon was dead because of it. “Tomorrow we will ask for the best sculptors in the North.” 

It’s all she manages to say before sobbing again. Jon cried with her now, shame filling his whole body. _ If only he had listened... _

“Aye,” he agrees. “I’m sorry, Sansa. I didn’t know…” 

But the cold, hard truth was that he _did_ know. Sansa emphasized. He was just too stubborn to listen, to believe in her words. 

“I’m sorry, too,” Sansa breathes out, making Jon close his eyes. Rickon was also his brother, and he was hurting just as much as her. “He was too young, Jon. Too young. He shouldn’t be worrying about battles. A kid shouldn’t worry about dying.” 

Jon nods in agreement, wiping his tears with the back of his hands. “The best sculptor in the North. Only the best could capture his youth and wildness.” 

She truly smiles this time, and he’s glad that she didn’t blame him. He knew that a part of her would always resent him for Rickon’s death, but he was glad that she didn’t voice her opinions at this very moment. 

“Will you stay with me tonight?”, her voice is low and shy, and she looks almost afraid of what he might answer.

Jon shifts in caution. It’s wouldn’t be the first time they’d share a bed. Back in Castle Black, one night Sansa had nightmares and woke up asking for him. He stayed with her until she fell asleep again, this time with her head resting on his chest. The other night he was the one waking up to gasps, and he went straight to her. She had insomnia, and he took her up in the Wall and they watched the sunrise, its rays hitting the huge block of ice, making it shine. Sansa was wonderstruck at the view, and Jon delighted at her happy expressions, and how the sun made her auburn hair glow. 

That morning, something changed for him. He noticed after a few days that he didn’t look at her the way a brother looked after a sister. Jon was disgusted at himself, blaming the bloody resurrection. When he woke up from the dead, he came back darker. He didn’t know until then that he was also brought back as a Lannister. 

He fought his instincts every day. Maybe he let out all of his frustration on their disagreements. She was everywhere. When she wasn’t near him, talking to him in that sweet voice of hers, she visited him in his dreams. Always beautiful and kind, always with the most beautiful smile on her face. 

“I’m sorry,” she rushes to speak after a few moments of silence. That’s when he realizes that he didn’t answer her. “I shouldn’t have asked that.” 

“Yes,” he says in a hurry, a brief moment of courage rushing through his veins. “I’ll stay with you.” 

She takes a deep breath, letting go of his hand, and walks towards the bed. She sits at the end of it, taking out her black boots. Jon walks to the other side of the bed, freeing his feet off his shoes as well. It would be a waste of time to say that he would sleep on the chair. Sansa would only protest, and Jon knew better than to do this. If she asked him to stay with her, she wanted to sleep beside him. Sometimes Jon wondered if she liked his body’s warmth the same way that he liked hers. 

He sighs, then joins her on the bed. She was laying on her side, her tiny hands below her cheek, eyes watching him mindfully. The mattress seemed to be as soft as the skin of her hand, and when his head fell on the pillow, he could swear that he was in heaven. He’s never been this comfortable his whole life. Castle Black’s mattress was hard and stiff. Jon was not used to this. 

“Jon,” she calls, her voice tender and smooth. He moved his body to face her, locking his eyes with her own. “Thank you for staying.” 

He smiles, reaching for her hand. “Of course,” he nods. _ I would do anything to make you feel good, because I love you. _ Jon gulps, realizing this is the first time that he admits to himself that what he feels for her is love. A love so deep and _ wrong _ that scares him to no end. “It was nothing.” 

Sansa frowns, clearly intrigued by his reaction. She chooses not to say a word. “Rest. Tomorrow we have a lot to do.” 

“We do,” Jon agrees, fighting the urge to put a string of her hair behind her ears. Her eyelids are heavy, and Jon can tell that she is almost gone. “Close your eyes. You’re home now, you’re safe.” 

So she does close her eye, quickly falling into slumber with a brief smile on her lips. He watches her for a moment, then feels himself vanish to sleep in peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! In this fic, we'll see their relationship by Jon's POV (I guess I'm still traumatized by S8). I hope you like it. :)  
Also, this is not beta read and English is not my first language - I apologize for any mistakes!


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set between seasons 6 and 7.

Slowly, House Stark rose again. Jon was King now, Sansa was Lady of Winterfell. He didn’t know how to rule, or how to please all those lords. He most certainly didn’t know how to play the game, but she was patient enough to teach him. Sometimes it was annoying how Sansa acted like she was born to do it. In some ways, she was. When she was a child, all she ever wanted was to be a Lady, paying close attention to every Septa Mordane’s lesson on what was ladylike, and what wasn’t. 

At the end of the day, she provoked him because she wanted him to show her some respect. It was getting tiresome; Jon felt helpless. Of course he respected her. He didn’t trust anyone but her. He took her opinions into consideration, even when she decided to voice them in front of the lords. He didn’t know why she never acknowledges his efforts. 

But today, as they were sitting side by side at the Great Hall after breaking their fast, listening to the northerners concerns, she was oddly quiet. Sansa hardly opened her mouth, and when she did, was only to say,  _ We will do our best to help you and your family _ ; or  _ You are welcome to stay in Winterfell until the blizzard stops. _

Jon often shot her a concerned look, his brows furrowed in worry, but she never looked back at him, nor said a word. It was unsettling and Jon was getting anxious. Two more hours of silence, and Sansa excused herself. Not long after, Jon followed her, leaving Sor Davos in his place.

“I wish to be alone, Jon,” she finally speaks as she enters her chambers, taking off her gloves and sending a word to a servant to lit up the fire. “Please, leave.” 

She has the Lord’s chambers now, Father’s chambers. By the time he had prepared the room for her, she kindly rejected the offer. But it wasn’t an option to Jon; Sansa was the only Stark in Winterfell, of course it would be hers. No matter if she repeated constantly that he was also a Stark, he didn’t have the name. 

“I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you want,” he sighs. “But you have to tell me what’s wrong first.” 

Sansa rolls her eyes, shaking her head. It takes only a glance at her servants for them to leave the room, nodding, slightly bowing, and whispering  _ Your grace; milady.  _ The girl is witty enough to close the door behind her. 

“I’m waiting,” Jon demands. She does not like his tone of voice and goes to sit on the chair by the fireplace, where they usually have supper together and discuss aspects of the North and Winterfell. “Sansa, please, just  _ talk _ to me.”

He is still standing close to the door when she opens her mouth. Looking at him with soft eyes, she says: “It’s silly,” she starts, guilty creeping through her words. “I don’t want you to worry.” 

“If it’s upsetting you, then it’s not silly,” he offers a sweet smile, the corner of his mouth softly twitching. Jon approaches her, taking a seat next to where she is, trying to get rid of her uneasy expression. “You can tell me.” 

“I had a dream,” she stops, taking a deep breath. “I was with Lady. We were running through the Godswood. I miss her, that is all.” 

Jon closes his eyes, unable to comfort her right away. He couldn’t imagine his life without Ghost. The direwolf was his best company, the most loyal creature he had ever known. They shared a sacred bond, Jon was sure of it. His mind flies back to Winterfell during their childhood, and he remembers Lady. She was sweet, consistently by Sansa’s side, who filled the beast with pleasant scratches. 

“That’s not silly at all,” he tells her at last. “She was always by your side, needy and asking for scratches,” Sansa nods, smiling at him. “I remember that you always brushed her fur, keeping her groomed. If direwolves had Kingdoms and courts, I’m sure Lady would be a princess.” 

“She was lovely, yes,” Sansa agrees, playing with her thumbs. “I often wonder what would happen if she lived with me in King’s Landing. She would probably hate it just as much as I did.” Her eyes are far away, and for a moment she seems to be anywhere else but here, with him, in Winterfell. “Joffrey would get her beaten or killed, that’s for sure.” 

Sansa ponders, and it’s the first time she slips out a bit of her time in the Red Keep. Jon clenches his jaw and his fists, nails digging into his palms, and the fact that she mentions it casually, as if being beaten was normal to her, makes it even more painful. 

“You can always play with Ghost, you know,” Jon says instead, trying to change the focus of the conversation. “He loves you.” 

“I guess,” Sansa smiles sadly. “Sometimes he scratches the door in the night, and I open it for him. He climbs up the bed and lays beside me. It’s warm and comfortable. I always sleep well when he comes.” 

“Really?” Jon raises his brows, surprised by her words. “I thought he was out in the woods hunting. That’s funny,” he chuckles. 

“Not in the woods, my King,” she playfully shooks her head. “I’m afraid he was with me the whole time.” 

A week later, Jon wakes up and decides that he is taking the day off, and Sansa is coming with him. Davos protested, saying that lords of small houses were fussy that morning, the blizzard had destroyed their shelter. Jon ordered a group of builders to examine the location, allowing them to repair the village. 

The snow was slowly falling off the sky now, the signs of the storm decreasing. They wouldn’t go far, just near Wintertown. Sansa looked like she could have a break, and after hearing that she missed Lady dearly, he organised a plan. A day with great food, a nice view and Ghost.

When he gets to the corridor of Sansa’s chambers, Brienne tells him that she is going to break her fast alone in her solar and had asked specifically not to be disturbed. Jon argues, explaining his plan to her. Her face is hard to read, but she steps aside to give him space to knock on the door. When Sansa opens the door only to find him, she looks astonished. 

“Is everything alright?”, she asks, looking rather apprehensive. 

“Yes, don’t worry,” he quickly assures her. Still standing outside of her chambers, he continues: “Have you already eaten?” 

Sansa frowns, crossing her arms above her chest and staring at him with narrow eyes. He smiles at her suspicious expression. “I was about to. Would you like to join me?”, she suggests. 

Jon shooks his head, his roguish smile growing wider, like a little child trying to hide something wrong. “Come with me.” 

“Come with you?”, the frown on her forehead highlighted little expression wrinkles. “Where?” 

“Somewhere nice near Wintertown,” she seems uncertain and doubtful, silence lingering upon them for what seems like an eternity. He catches Brienne by his left side, her mouth shut in a thin line as if she is trying to suppress a laugh. “I promise you’re going to enjoy it.” He tries to convince her once again. 

“But there’s so much to do now that blizzard stopped,” she protests, of course she does. “That was the reason I was breaking my fast alone, so that I could go straight to my duties.” 

He sighs, defeat washing over his face. “We’ll be gone only for the morning,” he gives her the one last card. “I’ve sorted out a few things with Davos already. Just come with me.” 

“Okay,” she finally nods, breathing out her words. Jon smiles, relieved. She still looks fishy, her ocean blue eyes filled with doubts. “I’ll go with you.” 

A carriage awaits for them in Winterfell’s courtyard. Jon packed lemon cakes, bread, some fruits and vegetables, sweet pumpkin soup and garlic. Sansa tried to hide her smile when he helped her enter the carriage and during the whole journey to the destination. He sits in front of her, their knees barely touching, looking shy as he observed Sansa’s attentive look through the tiny windows. 

She nervously taps her fingers on her lap, bites the inside of her cheeks and then her nails, clearly desperate to know where Jon was taking her. He wears a wicked smile on his face, enjoying her impatience much more than he should. She looked young and dreamy, and he liked that very much. 

Just as Sansa opens her mouth to ask, once again, where they were going, the horses stop. Jon mischievously raises a brow, holding back a laugh. 

“It seems like we’re eloping,” she states, her lips curving into a sweet smile. 

“Aren’t we?”, he inquires, leaving the carriage and offering his hand to help her through the steps. Sansa runs her hands over her deep green gown, trying to unwrinkle the piece of fabric. This dress reminded him of the one she had worn when they left Castle Black, only the sewing was much more elaborate. Instead of one wolf, she had sewed six of them, representing the direwolves of her family. She was proud to wear their story. As was Jon, who frequently wears the cloak she made him herself. 

Only now Jon notices that the fur around her cloak matches his own, and smiles at the thought. He leads the way beneath the forest, the trees so high they could touch the grey sky, Ghost following them right after. Jon chooses a spot, next to beautiful purple winter flowers, and takes out a blanket to secure them from sitting on snow. Sansa watches him carefully, stroking Ghost’s white fur slowly. 

“You don’t recognise the place,” he says, taking the food out of the basket and placing it over the blanket. “We used to come here with Father and our wolves, when they were growing up so fast that it was driving your lady mother's mad.” 

Sansa gasps, suddenly aware of where they were standing. “Jon! I can’t believe it!” Her high-pitched voice exclaims as she rushes to his side, excitement emanating through her body as she looked at him in wonder, kneeling down. “Father would bring lemon cakes so I wouldn’t pout and say that I wasn’t supposed to be running, because it wouldn’t be ladylike of me! And then you and Robb and Bran and Rickon would play Prince Aemon, the Dragonknight, I was always the princess in distress, waiting for you to save me… Arya hated it, hiding with me, to be rescued. She wanted to be part of the Kingsguard,” Sansa promptly blurts out, forgetting to breathe as she speaks. 

“Aye,” Jon says, with the biggest and nostalgic smile on his face. “Robb would always let me be Prince Aemon and took the part of Floran The Fool instead. Bran was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and poor Rickon, his esquire.”

“Jon,” she mutters, looking at him with amazed eyes. “Thank you. This is very thoughtful and lovely. You didn’t have to, truly. We have so much to do, important things, and you were worrying about me.”

He touches her face, stroking her pinkish cheeks with his thumb. “You’re important, Sansa,” he says, his voice gentle and soft. “You deserve a happy day only for yourself.”

Ghost barks at the woods, making them break their gaze. Sansa silently starts to help him unwrap the food. Her eyes shine when she sees the lemon cakes, taking a bit of the frosting with the tip of her forefinger, then shoving into her mouth. She closes her eyes, revels in it, making pleasant sounds come out of her throat. When she looks at him again, Jon quirks his brow and lifts his head, smirking at the scene. 

“Enjoying yourself?” 

“These are the best lemon cakes I’ve ever had,” she finally takes a bite, closing her eyes once again to focus all of her attention on the taste of the lemon cake. Jon takes one for himself. “Aren’t they?”

“You’re probably just hungry,” he chuckles softly. “They taste like they always did.” 

Then, she takes a sip of the soup and stares at Jon. She looks at him right in the face, as though she liked what she was seeing, as though she enjoyed studying his features. He holds her gaze, curiosity washing his mind, but he doesn’t say a word; he was afraid it would break whatever spell Sansa seemed to be under. After a few moments, Ghost appeared right next to her, licking her cheek and making her laugh. 

She lays on her back as Ghost jumps atop of her, asking for affection. Sansa gladly gives him hugs and kisses, letting out the prettiest giggles when he licks her cheek over and over again. Jon adored the sound of her laugh and how much carefree she looked in this specific moment, wanting to keep this image with him for the rest of his life. Ghost was no Lady, but he was giving Sansa comfort and satisfaction, so Jon couldn’t be more blissful.

Trying to get Ghost to run, she throws a wood stick as far as she possibly can. The beast runs fast towards that direction, catching the stick with his mouth and returning it to Sansa, who throws it out for a few more times. Ghost then disappears into the woods, probably out to hunt and properly break his fast. 

They eat in silence, finishing almost everything that Jon had packed. Taking a deep breath, she props her body weight on her elbows, lifting her head to look at the sky. Jon stands still, sitting with a relaxed posture and his legs stretched out in front of him. 

“Why did you bring me here?” she suddenly asks, cutting the comfortable silence.

“I told you,” he says, slightly annoyed that she didn’t pay attention earlier. “You deserve a day only for you.” 

“No,” she tries to clarify. “I mean here, in this field.”

“I don’t know,” he answers, contemplating the sound of the small tick of his jaw as he clenches it. “We had great times here. I guess I wanted to remember that.” 

She smiles as she means it, like what he just said opened a box of possibilities for her. She smiles showing her teeth, her eyes almost fully closed. She smiles like she is happy. 

“I feel happy,” she declares. “I usually fear the wars that are to come, our duty constantly reminding me of the great responsibility that we have in protecting our people, in protecting our home. But right now I’m only thinking about our childhood.” 

“Good,” Jon clears his throat before he lays on the blanket. “Let yourself be free and happy, at least for today.” 

“Why are you doing this?”, the sound of her voice is unsure as she looks around, searching for Ghost. Of course she wouldn’t just drop it. 

_“_Because,” he pauses._ Because I love you._ It’s as simple as that, _Because I love you, because you deserve to be happy, because you should have great moments in your life. Because I love you._ But Jon could never say the truth. He wishes that the words that come out of his mouth carry the same meaning, he wishes it carries his deepest secret. He wishes Sansa can read through them and discover that he is deeply in love with her. “You miss Lady. And I know that I can’t do anything to bring her back to you, and that Ghost’s nothing like her, but he loves you dearly. You are too hard on yourself, Sansa, and you should have joyful and gleeful moments in your life.”

“I guess I could say the same thing about you. There are whispers, you know, that the King is always brooding.” 

She teases, and he loves her even more because of it. “Is that so hard to believe,” he says, trying to bring the focus back to her. “That I would like you to have some time for yourself?” 

The sun is reaching the middle of the sky. She puts a hand above her forehead, closing one eye as the light becomes too sharp. “Do you think we can stay here a bit longer? And, on our way back, stop at Wintertown to talk to them, like we used to, with Father?”

The mention of his name brings him back to reality. 

“Aye,” Jon agrees, noticing that she chooses not to answer his question. “I was hoping you would say that.” 

“Great,” she mumbles. “It’s been a while since I went there to listen to their concerns.” Jon sighs, not out of annoyance, just tired of the burdens of his duty as King. But then, like she was sensing his discomfort, she says with a playful smile on her pinky lips: “Don’t worry. I’ll do the talking.” 

Jon nods, grateful to have her by his side. Sansa surely had more way with words than he would ever have. 


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missing scenes from 7x02.

He doesn’t want to go to Dragonstone. The lords and ladies are right, a Targaryen cannot be trusted, nor can a Lannister. But the dead march south, he needs fire and dragon glass, and Daenerys Targaryen can give him both. He hopes that when they meet, Jon can sound as certain as he did earlier today, when he told that it takes a King to convince a Queen. 

Sansa’s words haunt him as he watches the day turn into night from the battlements. _You’re abandoning your people, you’re abandoning your home._ _You’re abandoning me,_ he could read between the lines. Those words carried heavy meaning. They accused him of leaving her, when he had sworn to protect her. 

How she didn’t seem to understand, though, baffled him. Smart, clever Sansa couldn’t see the big picture? He was protecting her life. The dead were marching south. If only she knew what they were up against...

Jon snorts, rolling his eyes. A shiver runs through his spine when he remembers  _ his  _ words. His words carried his most deep, dark secret. They also carry heavy meaning.  _ The North is my home, it’s part of me, and I will never stop fighting for it, no matter the odds. The North is  _ ** _yours._ **

Had she had read between the lines too?  _ I am the North, I am yours. This is me keeping my promise. _ Was he too reckless, confessing his love to her in front of everyone? He couldn’t bring himself to a decision. The dangerous part of it all is that he doesn’t regret his words, not even for a bit. 

She gets on his nerves every single day, and it annoys the fuck out of him that she’s always right. Always one step ahead of him. Why is it so difficult for her to support him in his decision, he doesn’t know. He thought that Sansa of all people would understand his reasons. He was thinking about the big picture. It doesn’t matter who’s sitting on the throne when an army of dead people are marching towards their home. 

Leaving Winterfell in Sansa’s hand was a great demonstration of trust and belief. Something she’s been asking for a long time. Undermining his decisions and interrupting his speeches once in a while, all she ever wanted was to be heard. That he took her opinion into consideration. And he did, he always did. She was a natural, born to rule it, balancing her courtesy with strategy and administration. Jon knows that he wouldn’t be as respected as he is without her help. 

Rebuilding Winterfell was a job that was divided; he and Sansa worked on every little detail together. They would often argue, that’s for sure. But at the end of the day, either he or Sansa would indulge and come to an agreement. It was also a job that she could do on her own. She wasn’t the best military strategist, of course, not yet, but she had learned a few things from him. And he hopes that he’s back home, with Dragonfire and dragon glass, when the Night King and his army knock on their grey walls. 

He’s not scared of leaving Winterfell at her hands, he trusts her enough to believe that she’s the best person to look after their home. He’s scared of what Littlefinger might do in his absence. He is manipulative, likes riddles and puzzles that only cause harm, and to encourage meaningless suspicions on one’s mind. He knows that Sansa doesn’t rely on Lord Baelish. He knows that she’s playing him, patiently waiting for the moment in which she will no longer need him. Still, Jon is absolutely frightened at the possibility of Sansa falling into his traps. Completely afraid of leaving her alone to deal with him. Jon was Sansa’s confident, and she was his. It was common to discuss private matters of the Kingdom between only the two of them. She would share her underlying worries, and what made her feel uneasy, to Jon. Sansa often sought Brienne for advice as well, but she would always come to him first, even though she would probably take his words for granted. Even so, Jon liked this dynamic that they had created. It was unique and worked really well. 

He didn’t want Littlefinger to ruin it.  _ No, Sansa won’t let him. _

The sky is completely black when he finally leaves the battlement, feeling a bit more unruffled. He takes his supper in the Great Hall, the surroundings oddly quiet. The lords were still processing his decision, and Jon didn’t push them any further or tried to give another speech. In his mind, he begs to the Gods that they help him fulfil his promise. He prays that his people understand him. He prays that they understand that this is not the best, but the  _ only _ possible decision, giving the scenario of what’s coming next. 

Jon waits, but Sansa does not join them. He won’t bother her, not tonight, he will give her space. He knows her all too well to let her have a moment, so he won’t intrude. But tomorrow, before riding to White Harbor and then sailing South, he will talk to her. And, hopefully, he will make her understand. 

It’s not easy to fall sleep. He feels hectic and Ghost can feel it too, for he would pace around his chambers, fussy and turbulent. Jon rolls from side to side of the bed, concern filling his mind and blocking his senses, preventing him to fall asleep. Normally, he lays on the bed, closes his eyes, and blacks out. He does so many things during the day that he can only feel the exhaustion filling his body the moment he collapses into bed. 

The next morning, it’s an arduous task to open his eyes, his eyelids heavy as stone. He lifts his body from the mattress wishing to have a few more moments of sleep, sighing as his bare feet touch the cold ground. He winces, looking for his breeches and jerkin, pulling it over his body along with his cloak and boots. 

Then, he goes to find her. 

  
  


Sansa leaves her doors open for him as if she already knew that he was coming. Jon nods to the guards and steps into her solar, slowly closing the door behind him. They will discuss private matters, and he didn’t want anyone in the castle to overhear their conversation. She is running her fingers along the length of her red hair, pulling the loose strands to finish a braid. It’s been a long time since she doesn’t have maids to help her; Jon still can’t figure out if it’s because she enjoys doing her hair, or because she can’t bring herself to trust anyone anymore. 

He watches her carefully and in silence, patiently waiting for a signal that would say that she’s ready to talk to him. Sansa leisurely gets ready, doing her personal tasks painfully unhurried, like she had plenty of time. If Jon didn’t know better, he would say she looked even relaxed. But they didn’t have all the time in the world, he would soon be leaving, and Sansa couldn’t postpone this conversation any longer. 

“You can’t ignore me forever,” he says and she looks at him for the first time since she entered her chambers. Her eyes are sad and worried, the way that it physically hurts him, and her nose has a slight shade of red. Jon was sure that she had cried, maybe even wept, last night. The bags under her eyes indicated that she had trouble sleeping as well. 

“You’re leaving this morning?”, she asks, sitting in front of her table and picking a scroll to play with. 

“After we break our fast,” he nods, upholding his hands above Longclaw, on his hips. “We’ll ride to White Harbor.” 

“So I still got some time to ask of you,” she raises her brows, taking a deep breath. “Don’t go.” 

_ You idiot, _ her eyes completed.  _ Don’t go, you idiot, _ they pleaded. But he has to. 

“You know that I have to,” he sighs, breaking eye contact. “I told you, this is the only choice. We don’t stand a chance against the Army of the Dead.” 

“I’m  _ scared, _ Jon,” she confesses, fixating her gaze at one of his facial scars, the one above his right eye. “Father rode South and ended up dead, so did Robb. We are Northerners, we  _ must stay _ in the North.” 

“You really think that little of me?” he narrows his eyes, waiting for her response. She looks confused, with her brows knitted on her forehead and eyes travelling around his face until landing on his own. 

“What do you mean by that?” Sansa questions slowly, heat rising through her body at his accusation. 

“I remember your words, Sansa. You are so certain that I don’t listen to what you tell me, you are so sure that I never pay attention to your remarks, but I do. I always do.” His tone of voice rises as he speaks, his gaze so deep that penetrates her soul. Jon sighs, lowering his shoulders. He walks to her, catches her hands in his, making her stand right next to him. “I’ll be smarter than Father and Robb, I promise you that I will. But I need you to trust me.”

Sansa absentmindedly puts her other hand above of his, promise and belief filling her eyes as her mind finds the right words to say. “I trust you.” 

“Do you really?”

“You know that I do. I don’t trust anyone but you, Jon.” she says as she means it, and he wants to hold her like the way he always holds her; deep and tight, comforting and loving. Her hands find his chest, her palms all over him. It’s a sweet gesture of affection. She wants to show him that she cares. “Don’t make promises that you can’t keep,” Sansa warns, staring deep into his soul. 

“I won’t,” Jon ensures, catching her face between his hands. 

“Just come back, okay?”, she pleads. “You have to come back to me. I only have you, Jon, and I can’t lose you.” Her eyes are fierce and certain, her hands grabbing the fur of his cloak to make a point, to bring him closer. Her voice is almost a whisper now. “So come back. Don’t let Dragonstone cost us the North. Don’t let Daenerys Targaryen cost me you.” 

Jon pulls her into his arms, tightly squeezing her body by her waist. He wants to say that he will keep every promise that he’d made her, even if it means that he’s going to die trying. But he doesn’t. He's focused on how her arms wrapped around his chest make him feel. She holds him just as close, savouring his touch for what could be the last time. Sansa allows herself to cry for a bit, wide-open between his arms, never been this vulnerable around him before. She tilts her head, searching for his eyes. When she finds them, her lips part, as if she is going to say something, but not a sound comes out of her mouth. An inaudible sigh escapes through them instead. 

“I’ll come back.” He mutters his promise. In his head, he is capable of saying every little thing that’s on his mind,  _ I’ll come back to you, I promise. I’ll come back North, and I love you.  _

When he waves goodbye to her from his horse and leaves the gates of Winterfell, the image of her lips parched in a thin and weak smile filling his mind, a weird sensation flows through his stomach. Jon wonders if he’s really doing what’s best for her, what’s best for the North. He wonders if sailing South is the right thing to do. 

He prays to the Gods that it is. 


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon reveals his true identity to the last of the Starks.

_ I’m the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen.  _

_ They were wed. _

_ I’ve never been a bastard.  _

_ I’m the true heir to the Iron Throne. _

_ My whole life has been a lie.  _

Jon repeats these words again and again, trying to make sense out of it. He wishes Sam had never told him. He feels desperate, lost and scared. What do you do when your world crumbles down in the middle of the apocalypse? What do you do when the simple fact that you exist could put everything that you hold dear in danger? 

Sitting in front of the Heart Tree in the godswood, Jon tries to calm himself a little bit. He was still recovering from the argument with Sansa when Sam broke the news for him. He couldn’t hide the fact from Daenerys Targaryen. Telling his family would be considered treason because he had technically bent the knee. The thing is, Jon doesn’t want the Iron Throne. He just wants to stay in the North with his family. 

The South reminds him of Dragonstone, of pretend and of manipulating Daenerys Targaryen, who happens to be a mother of two dragons, to believe that he is in love with her. These are things that he desperately wants to forget. 

Jon really thought, at first, that it would be easy. He could really fall in love with her. She was confident, beautiful and really believed that she would free the world from tyranny. He thought that he could fall for her. Maybe if he did, he would forget about the way that his chest ached when he thought of Sansa-his  _ sister.  _ Maybe he would forget that every fibre in his body wanted to touch her, wanted to make her, his. Maybe he would forget that he is deeply, madly, completely in love with her. He really wanted to develop feelings for Daenerys, he really wanted to stop this nonsense that only grew wider by each day, but then he heard that Daenerys had a soft spot for burning people alive. 

He knew that he could never love someone who killed people only because they didn’t agree with her. 

Trying to reason with her wouldn’t work; she was too headstrong. So Jon had to think fast and smart. Tricking her was his way of being smarter than Father - than Ned Stark - and Robb Stark. 

This was his way of keeping his promise to Sansa. His cousin Sansa, not his sister Sansa. For a moment, Jon allowed himself to feel relieved. Of course she would still be disgusted at him, at his feelings, but still, for a moment, he felt relief. 

The sound of footsteps awakes him from his state of mind. He raises his head only to find Sansa walking in his direction. She closes the distance between them in easy steps, her posture is firm and her eyes are forthright, like having a goal and being sure that you will achieve it. Sansa pauses in front of him, her arms resting by the side of her hips. She plays with her fingers, a habit that indicated that she was a bit nervous. 

“I’m sorry for lashing out,” she starts, looking down at him. “But I want you to know that I don’t agree with you.” 

“As if you already hadn’t made it quite clear that you dislike her,” he answers bitterly. “Like I said, try to have faith in me.” 

“I don’t agree with the fact of you bending the knee to a foreigner,” she goes to sit by his side. “It is none of my business if you love her.” 

“Sansa,”  _ I love you. I can’t love her, because I’ve been loving you for quite some time now. _ Jon sighs, tired of arguing with her. It feels like they’ve been arguing for decades. “What did I say to you the morning I left to Dragonstone?” 

“That you would come back.” she shoots back right ahead, doesn’t need a second to think. 

“Aye,” he nods. “But that wasn’t the only thing that I told you. Do you remember all of my words?” 

She frowns, turning her head to his side, facing him. After a few beats, she gasps, then says: “You told me that you would be smarter than Father and Robb.”

“Aye,” he repeats. “Do you understand?” 

“I do.”    
  


His eyes are dark and intense as he studies Sansa’s features. Her high cheekbones are flushed, her bright blue eyes filling in understanding. Jon silently asks for help and she nods lightly, but it’s enough to show him that she cares, and that she will do everything that she can to help him. Sansa puts her hands atop of his own, a reassuring smile appearing on her face. 

“There’s something else,” Jon starts, making Sansa shift by his side. The mood changes from comforting to hesitant in the blink of an eye. 

“What is it?”, she stares at him, her face so near that if he moved an inch closer, he would be able to feel the warmth of her breath. 

Jon takes a deep sigh, trying to relax. “I’ve been told by Sam that I’m the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen,” he says in a rustle. “They were wed. I’ve never been a bastard, I’m-” 

“The true heir to the Iron Throne,” Sansa completes, wide-eyed and unbelievable. She gasps, her mouth forming the shape of an “O”, and stays like this for a moment. 

She doesn’t ask for an explanation, she doesn’t make this about her. She simply opens her arms and embraces him. Sansa hugs him with tenderness and love. She hugs him like she cares. She holds him like he matters, the type of hug that speaks what words could never say. The type of hug that screams loud and clear,  _ You are not alone, I’m here for you. _

It doesn’t take long. Jon starts to shamelessly cry. Sansa puts his head on her lap, smoothing his black curls for quite some time. She doesn’t say a word; she knows him too well to wait for the right moment. Now, he just needs to let it out. 

They stay like this for a while, until his tears dry. Jon caressing her knee, Sansa alternating her endearments between his hair and shoulders. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, making himself free of her embrace. 

“Shhh,” Sansa shooks her head. “Don’t be ashamed of your feelings.” 

He wishes her words carried double-meaning, a spark in her eye making him think that the news is, in some way, relieving for her as well. 

“I can only imagine what you’re going through, it must be a mix of emotions,” she continues, trying to unburden him. “Just let yourself feel. It’s better if we don’t restrain it.” 

“Thank you, Sansa.” Jon whispers and there’s honesty, brutal honesty in his voice. She can feel his candor in her bones. It makes her shiver, but Jon does not notice. 

“It’s okay,” she curves the corner of her lips in a simple smile. “You’re my…  _ cousin. _ That’s what family is for.” Her voice is strange, like she’s trying to savour how the new word feels inside of her mouth. He reaches to touch the lines of her forehead, rubbing her skin for a little bit. Jon wants to get rid of the awkwardness, and Sansa understands his reasons. 

She takes his hand off of her forehead, catching his attention. He looks her in the eye and  _ it’s there _ . She stares at him like he’s always desired, like he’s needed for a long time. Her eyes are full of want. He’s sure that his own are showing her the same thing. 

A want so desperate and violent that scares him. 

Sansa doesn’t seem afraid, though. But then, she shooks her head briefly, her eyes watering, telling him, begging him to understand that now it’s not the time. Once again, she’s right. Jon gulps, breaking eye contact and focusing on the wet, white snow beneath them. He takes a weirwood leave between his fingers, sighing deeply. 

“What will you do?” she asks, her voice attentive and mindful. 

“What will  _ we  _ do?” Jon rectifies. Sansa’s a better politician than he will ever be. He enjoys the way her eyes fulfil in satisfaction, reminiscing the time they were first reunited. 

“We’ll think of something, don’t worry,” she answers, sure of herself. “For now, let’s go to Arya’s chambers. She wants to have supper with the last of the Starks.”

Jon relishes in her recognition, his appreciation coming out of his body in a huge beam. She smiles back at him, getting up on her feet and offering a hand. Jon takes it, leading the way out of the godswood and into the Winterfell corridors. 

Sansa still wears a proud smile when they get to Arya’s chambers. That evening, they talk about the way Jon and Arya used to make fun of Sansa behind her back, which she finds it to be rude, but secretly adores it anyway. They talk about the way Bran liked to boss Rickon around. They talk about Old Nan’s stories, and how Robb didn’t believe in any of them. They talk about Jon and Bran’s adventures beyond the wall, they talk about Arya’s skills, and they talk about how Sansa had always been the smartest of them all. 

They talk about Jon being the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, and how this changes nothing at all, and how it changes everything that exists. 

But, above all things, they cherish the fact that they are together to hear the sound of each other’s laughs and the fact that they are, against all odds, alive. 

It was like they’d been stripped of their titles. Not Jon, the King in the North who had bent the knee. Not Sansa, the Lady of Winterfell. Not Arya, high-trained fighter, or assassin, or killer. Not Bran, the Three-Eyed Raven.   
  
No. In that evening, they were just Jon, Sansa, Arya and Bran. They were just  _ family. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Just wanted to tell you that I appreciate all the kudos that this story is getting. It makes me truly happy that some of you seem to like it. Thank you so much! <3


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon says goodbye before the Great War.

“You’re a great fighter, Jon, it’s pointless to ride a dragon while we’re on the ground against the dead,” Arya says, with her confident upright posture and arms crossed behind her back. Narrowing her eyes, she continues, “Don’t you think?” 

Standing in the middle of Jon’s old office were Arya and Sansa. They were both terrified of what was about to happen, as was Jon. The plan wasn’t his favourite as well, but they didn’t have time to argue over this. The dead had arrived. 

“We need Dragonfire to kill them, Arya,” he answers instead, trying to reason with her. 

“Yeah, I know, you’ve made yourself quite clear,” she bitterly says. “I’m just stating the obvious. I don’t see one fucking reason.” 

When Arya opens her mouth to broaden her point of view, Jon interrupts her, his voice thick and firm. “There’s no time,” he warns. “We’ll stick to the plan.” 

He can tell that she’s suspicious and hates what was settled, but nods in agreement anyway. Jon sighs in relief. They could be dead in minutes, he didn’t want to argue with her.

“I don’t want to hide in the crypts,” Sansa says after a moment of silence. Honestly, this was getting pretty tiring. “Not right away, I mean. I’d rather wait in the battlements until it’s time. I have to show them that I’ll protect them.” 

Arya looks at her, uncertain. When she speaks, her voice is soft and careful. “Sansa, I beg your pardon, but this is a suicide mission. You’ve done more than enough with little resources, I’m sure they won’t forget about it. But you don’t know how to carry a sword.”

Sansa nods, wiping a tear. “It’s just that… I’m  _ so  _ scared. I’m actually terrified, but I have to be strong for them.”

Arya closes the distance between them, taking both of Sansa’s hands with her own. Jon watches the scene with fondness, once remembering that witnessing such a thing would be impossible. “You told me that I’m the strongest person you’ve ever known. Well, I say that you are the strongest person I’ve ever known. You’re brave, Sansa. Don’t let fear overrun your entire body. Only fear can cut deeper than swords.” 

Jon reads right through Arya, though, and he can see that she’s scared as well. He loved her even more for trying to hide it so Sansa wouldn’t be even more scared. But, honestly, who isn’t? There would be great loss during the battle, and they could pretty much be among them. They hug with close eyes and pure heart that were saying  _ Don’t die tonight, please. _

“I need to take care of something,” Arya announces. Jon, on the other hand, knows that she wants to give them privacy. “But I’ll meet you at the battlements before it all starts,” she shoots a look at Sansa, who is trying to fight back her tears. “I have something for you. It will give you a bit of confidence… At least I hope so.” 

Sansa answers with a tiny smile, her lips parched together in a thin line. Arya’s smile mirrors Sansa’s, and she has tears in her eyes as she leaves the room quiet as shadow and calm as still water. 

“Please, do as she says,” Jon starts, then raises his head to properly look at Sansa. She was twirling her forefinger around a strand of her auburn hair. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Excuse me?”, she questions, brows furrowed, clearly offended by his choice of words. 

“I care for you, Sansa,” he sighs, lowering his head. His jaw clenches, and when he looks her in the eye, he almost tells her.  _ I love you. _ He’s never been so slippery with his feelings, he’s always respected her, always tried to suppress this thing, because he knew that it was wrong. Today is harder, because he might die, and Sansa does not seem to hide behind a mask. Because of that, he almost tells her. But he can’t. Not yet. “I need you to be safe.”

“We don’t have much time, you said it yourself,” Sansa reminds him. “Jon… I-I…” She can’t finish her sentence, and Jon has no idea of what she is trying to say. He searches for her eyes from across the room, and once again he sees the spark. He has no doubts now; she loves him back. In the twisted and mean turn of fate, she loves him. Her blue eyes are full of emotion and saying a million of things, and she loves him and she’s terrified of leaving him. Jon stares at her with intensity and sadness, weighing the tragic situation. He walks in her direction with open arms and the wishful thinking of feeling her body intertwined between his once again. 

But it’s all mindless dreaming. He’s prepared to die and she knows it. 

“You’ll be fine, I know that you will,” Jon offers. He doesn’t know if he’s saying that to her, or to himself. Probably both. “Arya couldn’t have said it better. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known.” 

He’s saying goodbye and she hates it. “Don’t say it,” her voice is low and broken because of her tears. “We’re not done fighting,” she whispers, her way of telling him to don’t give up, because she believes in him. Jon nods, letting her go. As she passes out of the door, Sansa waits for a beat and then storms back in the room. “I’ll meet you at the battlements when it’s over. I will tell Arya the same thing. Just find us there when it’s over, then we go to the Heart Tree, to Bran, _together_,”  _ We’ll survive this _ , she’s reassuring. We most likely won’t, Jon thinks, but he appreciates her effort anyway. He looks almost convinced. “Go find her.” 

Just like that, she’s out. All Jon can hear is the decreasing sound of her boots rocking on the ground of Winterfell. He takes a deep breath, focusing on his facade, adjusts Longclaw on his hip, then leaves to find Daenerys. 

Their relationship had become tense and strange since Jon had spilt the truth of his parentage to her. Adding the fact that he’d ruin her claim to the throne, it was getting more difficult to pretend. It was easier in Dragonstone, when Sansa was not all over the place. Because she  _ is _ Winterfell. You can see her touch in every part of it; her kindness when she’s speaking with the northerners who are seeking help in Winterfell; her fruity smell when she walks through the corridors gracefully; the determination that comes out of her eyes when she’s speaking about the North; the way the colour of her lips and cheeks match because of the cold; and her blue eyes that speak every little thing that she can’t bring herself to say out loud.

Sansa never leaves his mind. It’s hard to pretend to love somebody else when all of your senses are focused on the one person that could make you happy. His tricky mind spins around in a carousel of memories, and he finds it very difficult to shake them. But, for Sansa, he tries his best. He tries to follow the plan she came up with. 

It’s not looking good, though. Jon knows that Daenerys can feel that something is off - and it’s not just about his parentage. Maybe she felt that their love affair, or whatever it was that they had, had vanished the moment they laid foot on Winterfell’s courtyard. Maybe Jon’s eyes handed him over. Or perhaps it was Sansa’s immediate aversion to Daenerys and her dragons. Maybe he was too reckless to think that he could ever trick her, and the most powerful woman in Westeros was just waiting for the right moment to expose him. Maybe he was the one getting fooled around. 

The one thing he is sure of is that this is not going to end well. A deep sensation and a strong intuition are shouting inside of him:  _ run! run! run! _

But he can’t run away from this situation. Jon just wishes that when fire catches him, he is miles away from the people he loves the most. 

He just wishes to keep them safe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are! Only one chapter left. *o*  
I have to say that I won't dig too deep into politics as I'm trying to just write simple, meaningful scenes, but we'll see a flash of Sansa's plan next chapter, where everything falls kinda into place and there are no more secrets to hide.   
Thank you for your support!


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He finally tells her.

It’s been almost a year since the burning of King’s Landing. Standing on a ground of ice, the free folk by his side, Jon can still taste the ashes inside of his mouth, as his nose can smell the burning flesh. Being complicit in one of the biggest wars that Westeros had witnessed haunts him every day. It haunts him because he'd thought that his plan - Sansa’s plan - would work. He would go to King’s Landing with Daenery’s army to deal with Cersei. Jon had even managed to get her to agree to give Cersei a fair trial. Then, he would dear with _ her. _He would tell her that he had never once thought of claiming the Iron Throne, and that throne was actually a thing that he never wanted. He would give a signed paper and his words, his true words, that he would abdicate his right to rule as Aegon Targaryen, and that the Six Kingdoms belonged to her, that they were her destiny. He would give the words she liked to hear. 

He never wanted the South. He was the North, and the North needed to be free. 

He knew that it wasn’t going to be easy. She had had the goal of ruling the Seven Kingdoms for years. But Jon had hope that she would agree to give the North’s independence. Then, he would return home. To Winterfell, and to Sansa. 

If she denied his wishes, she would find soldiers and a much bigger army than the one she owned. Sansa had the North, the Riverlands and the Vale behind her back, and they would march South to fight alongside him. 

But then-

_But then-_

Daenerys had burned King’s Landing, in an act of extremely power-hungry madness, and the city was reduced to ashes, and thousands of innocent people were killed. Just because she wanted the damn Throne. It was in the middle of the sack that Jon had realized: she wouldn’t stop. She was a conqueror, and she had dragons and a clear vision of a world she wanted to build. Nothing, not even her love for him, would stop her for reaching it.

He had to stop her, and so he did. 

It led to his imprisonment, to Bran becoming King of the Six Kingdoms, to Sansa becoming Queen in The North, and to Jon being banished from them. 

For being complicit to mass murder, his punishment would be to stay away from his family. To stay away from her. 

At first, he was angry. But then his anger vanished, giving place to a pang of guilt so brutal and strong that it almost keeps him from sleeping in peace every night. Jon didn’t stay put in Castle Black for many moons. He would come and go, but he mostly stayed with the Wildlings. Bran had set him to freedom, in a horrid way, so he would at least try to be free.

But the taste of freedom felt flat beneath his tongue. He wanted to be free inside of grey corridors, the Godswood, and beside of her. 

_ You can’t, you can’t, you can’t. _ He reminded every day. Saying fuck it to his life and coming back to Winterfell meant putting her in danger, and he would never, _ ever _, do that. He had seen up close and personal what the Unsullied were capable of. 

Ghost’s uneasy expression wake him up from his thoughts. His red eyes were focused on his left, his ear attentive to a sound that Jon couldn’t hear yet. The direwolf licked his claws, then started to trot towards whatever it was that got his attention. He disappeared for half an hour, the perfect time to cook the fish that would feed them tonight. They had set camp near a lake. The water ran smoothly free now, a sign that Jon took as that the Winter was nearly ending. 

His big white direwolf didn’t come back alone. Beside her, two brown and shiny horses pushed a small carriage by his side. Ghost seemed to be happy, but Jon didn’t need his confirmation to know who was inside of it. Soon enough, her copper hair illuminated the white snow that swallowed them as Sor Brienne helped her down. 

Moving her head from side to side, she couldn’t see him yet. But he could, and he felt his mouth go dry and the palm of his hand shake lightly at her view. She was more beautiful than he remembered, always gracious, always polite. Sansa distributed smiles to the free folk, stopping to talk for a bit with the ones she remembered from not so long ago. Tormund’s face lit up when he had spotted her, and Sansa let him hug her in a way that old friends who haven’t seen each other in far too long hug. 

Ghost never leaves her side, not even when she finally lays her ocean blue eyes on Jon. They lock their gazes for a while, studying each other, drinking each other, spotting what has changed, and what hasn’t. 

Tormund yells to get the people’s attention - Brienne’s attention - and give them privacy. Jon gets closer, still a bit uncertain, tension hanging heavy above them, but then the corner of her lips curve and it’s a simple smile, one he doesn’t deserve it, but she willingly gives him anyway. 

The next minute, she throws herself at him in that unique way of hers, and he holds her close, he breathes her in, the only way he knows how. She’s a bit more heavy now, her hair a bit shorter, but she’s just as sweet as ever. He can tell that she’s still Sansa, and he loves her, he loves her, he loves her so much it hurts. He loves her, and he can’t possibly know how he was able to function without her, her soft skin, and her beautiful smile. 

Her side-braid gets trapped between his untrimmed and much longer beard when he finally lets go of her and Sansa nervously laughs, trying to lighten the mood, Jon supposes. 

“Your Grace,” he greets her. Sansa truly laughs now, rolling her eyes, implying that it was unnecessary, but he can tell that she appreciates the courtesy. 

“Hi, Jon,” she answers, and he follows the trace of her eyes among the features of his face, until they set to look him in the eye. He smiles to her, still overwhelmed by her presence. “You look well.” 

_I’ve been miserable without you,_ he wanted to tell her. Instead, he nods, and says: “The free folk treat me way better than I deserve.” 

“Oh,” she looks surprised by his choice of words, a thread of anger passing through her eyes as she puts a string of hair behind her ear. “I suppose that is why you haven’t answered my ravens, then.” 

Her voice is full of complain and Jon blurts out a laugh, suddenly realizing that he had missed her heat so much more than he thought. She frowns in response, still waiting for a confirmation, but Jon doesn’t give her. 

“Let’s go inside,” he turns on his feet, leading the way to his tent. “It’s not a Castle, but it’s comfortable.” 

It was not big, just the perfect size for him and Ghost. Her eyes scanned through the space, and she can’t help but show a little bit of disappointment. She tries to hide her pity, but Jon can read her all too well to miss it. 

“It’s comfortable, I promise,” he assures, tapping on the amount of furs that he calls a bed, calling her to feel it for herself. She joins him, sitting tentatively close, raising her brows and pouting in doubt. 

She scratches the fur between her fingers. “Not bad,” Sansa says. “From what I can remember, this feels much softer than Castle Black’s old mattresses.” 

“Aye, they are,” Jon agrees, noticing that she’s trying to say something about his absence. 

“But they’re not nearly as fluffy as our chamber’s feathers bed. Do you miss it?”

_Do you miss me?,_ was what she was truly asking. Yes, he misses her the most. More than his feather bed, more than Winterfell’s corridors, more than listening to the sound of children playing at the courtyard, more than the calmness of the Godswood, more than the peace of the Heart Tree and more than visiting their family down in the Crypts. 

So he is honest when he tells her, “More than anything.” 

She turns her body to face him, flashing a quick look to his ungloved hands that were resting by his side. She seems to be deciding whether she will catch them or not. Sansa chooses to close her hands in a fist instead. Looking back at him, she smiles. “You must be wondering why I am here.” 

“It intrigues me a bit, yeah, that you would travel this long to meet me in person,” _ even after I didn’t reach out to you since we said goodbye in the South, even if I missed your coronation, _the rest of his words linger in the air, and Jon is sure that Sansa can read them. 

“Arya’s about to give birth to Gendry’s child,” she says and Jon’s face turns into a big surprise ball. He had written her back, only twice, but he had. He didn’t know that she was with child, though. “She came back to Winterfell after she realized that she didn’t want to bring her child to this world away from her family.”

“You mean away from _you,_ right?” Jon offered, and Sansa’s eyes softened. Arya didn’t know anything about being a Lady and preparing to be Mother, she skipped all of her lessons and didn’t pay much of attention when her Lady Mother tried to talk to her about her flowering. “Gods, she must be so scared.” 

It could only be a sick and twisted joke of the Gods to make Arya a mother before Sansa. 

“I’m doing my best,” Sansa replies. “I can say that she’s calmer than she was a few moons ago. Gendry’s being supportive, so you needn't worry,” she smiles reassuringly. “So that’s why I’m here. I figured if you wouldn’t come back home to me, then you’d certainly come back home to meet Arya’s babe.” 

Jon shifts on his seat, choosing his words with caution. “You know why I can’t come back.”

“No, if you’ve read at least one of the seven billion ravens I’ve sent to Castle Black, then you’d know that the North pardoned you long ago,” she explains camly, like trying to educate a child on what is right and what is not. 

“Still, Sansa,” he says her name out loud for the first time in ages, and it feels like a sweet prayer on his ears. “It’s dangerous.” 

Jon gets up, rubbing the palm of his hand fiercely through his face. 

Sansa scoffs. 

“Why are you being so unreasonable?” she asks in that accusation way of hers, one that he’s missed for far too long. “I’ve already told you: we’ve made peace with the Unsullied. The Dothraki won’t ever cross the narrow sea again,” she ponders, raising her voice as she speaks, finally letting him see that, yes, she’s been angry. “I don’t understand why you can’t just come home!”

“Because I love you!”, he yells, his eyes popped out, mouth open and heavy breathing. He can’t take it back now. “Because I know that you do, too, and because I swore to protect you, Sansa, and that is one promise that I tend to keep until my last breath, even if it means that I don’t get to see you.” 

Sansa looks shocked, her mouth open, but her voice is almost a whisper when she answers him. “Is this your way of punishing me?”

“Punish you?” he scoffs, incredulous that she would even say such a thing. “Have you gone mad?”

“No, Jon, I’m not _freaking_ mad!” _How dare you,_ she shouts back at him now, getting up, her arms open wide as she shakes her head furiously. She sighs, and it’s massive, like she’s letting go of the heaviest of weights. “I just miss you.” She shrugs, searching for his eyes, and looking defeated. “I miss your eyes, your kind smile, the way you grip on Longclaw, the pace of your walk, even your stubbornness. I miss ruling Winterfell by your side, late nights in my chambers as we finish our duties, and how you always say goodnight kissing my forehead. I think of you every day, I try not to, believe me, but I can’t get you out of my head.”

She’s there, right over there, brutally honest, and he frowns as he looks at her, because he can’t take it anymore. No, it hurts too much, and he’s had enough - they’ve had enough. 

So in quick steps he takes her once again between his arms, holding her closer than most, feeling whole, feeling home, feeling on fire. _ You have no idea how much I’ve missed you, _ he whispers in her ear. She catches his long face between her tiny hands; they are cold and remind him of home, of Winterfell. Her eyes are pleading, and he sighs, and he can’t take it any longer. 

He kisses her then, his pouty lips brushing through her soft skin tenderly, trying to say what words never could. He doesn't have a way with words, never had, so he kisses her to make her understand. Sansa pushes back for a bit, their foreheads touching, and when she smiles against his lips, he knows what this feels like. 

It’s freedom, and happiness, and love, and belonging. 

It’s home, and she’s the first day of Spring after the cruellest of Winters. 

She closes her eyes again and Jon kisses her properly this time, tracing the line of her sweet lips with his tongue, savouring hers as she gives him entrance and kisses him back with everything that she has. He can’t believe that she’s finally between his arms, that she didn’t give up on him, and that she loves him back. 

He feels deeply how much she loves him back. He thinks he will never be able to put into words how much he loves and appreciates and thanks her for giving him purpose. He wishes to spend the rest of his life trying to make her see that. 

“I love you,” he says softly, one hand caressing her slim waist, and the other touching her flushed cheek. Utterly and completely infatuated by her. “I love you, I love you, _my Gods,_ I love you.”

He confesses like a prayer he’s been holding back to say out loud for years. Sansa catches his lips between hers again, and he never wants to stop kissing her. 

“I love you too, Jon,” she answers then, and her words are the sweetest melody to his ears. “I’ve been loving you for as long as I can remember.” 

Jon looks her in the eye, her smile is meeting her delicate orbs and she’s the best vision he’s ever had. He chuckles at her, thinking that not even the loveliest of songs could capture the way he feels at this very moment. She’s perfect, and he adores her. 

She’s silently saying _ come home, come home, come home _as she looks at him in wonder, touching his face with love and devotion. 

He nods, not thinking twice - he doesn’t need to, not anymore, he knows that they will work it out together - a million of_ yes, yes, yes, of course I will come back home with you _ dancing through the air. 

Jon kisses her again, and again, and again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess this is the end, huh? I'm pretty proud of this chapter. I hope you guys like it just as much as I enjoyed writing.  
Thank you SO MUCH for reading the whole thing, and see you next time! <3 
> 
> P.S. If you're into modern AUs, make sure to check my other fic - Automatically in love.

**Author's Note:**

> Catch me on tumblr! - I'm sansastarkw. :)


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